


Pain in my heart, stake through your soul

by sunwisher



Category: ATEEZ (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Magic, Blood Drinking, Blood and Violence, M/M, Mutual Pining, Vampire San, Witch Wooyoung, Witches Seongjoong, oblivious idiots
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-24
Updated: 2020-12-24
Packaged: 2021-03-10 21:48:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,063
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28294089
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunwisher/pseuds/sunwisher
Summary: “I will tell Seonghwa hyung on you,” Wooyoung threatens, legs a little shaky with San's undivided attention focused on him for longer than usual.“Ooooh, I’m so terrified~” San sing-songs, hands in the air as he waves them around.“Merlin, you’re a menace,” Wooyoung grumbles, adding another stem of rosemary to the cauldron, nose picking up on an odd shift in smell he’s not used to.The grin on San’s face grows impossibly wider. “Yeosang says it’s your influence.”Or, Wooyoung's one of the most powerful witches of the century, San's a vampire, and literally everyone else knows of his blood-sucking tendencies except Wooyoung.
Relationships: Choi San/Jung Wooyoung
Comments: 15
Kudos: 123





	Pain in my heart, stake through your soul

**Author's Note:**

> Hey rockstars,
> 
> This was supposed to be my contribution for Halloween!! But life got in the way and I had to stop writing for a while, so after some contemplation, I've decided to post this to see if I can finally finish this fic haha!! I hope you enjoy reading because I had a lot of fun writing it!! Merry Christmas, lovelies!!
> 
> tw // attempted non-consensual touching, attempted groping
> 
> A passenger in the bus tries to touch Wooyoung. Nothing actually happens because San intervenes, but I just wanted to warn you guys!

_ Rosemary, lavender, brittle mud cake, essence of unicorn blood and pickled cinnamon— _

Pickled cinnamon. 

Fuck. Where is it?

A black gloved hand sets down the jar in question on the wooden surface of Wooyoung’s desk beside where he brews his potions. It’s almost as if he has conjured it, but he knows he hasn’t. Instead, his magic is thrumming comfortably in his veins in a way it does only when a certain someone is nearby.

_ San. _

“You’re late, you prick,” Wooyoung whines indignantly. He knows it’s shameless, but if the other man is feeling particularly nice tonight he will probably reward him with a ruffle of his hair or a soft touch to his elbow in return. 

Perhaps Wooyoung’s feeling a little touch starved tonight without his daily dose of affection.

There’s the sound of soft stifled laughter behind him before the gloved hand pats his hair gently.

It’s exactly what Wooyoung wants but he can’t help but feel a little sad, mostly because he knows San’s not on the same wavelength as him, shifting on his feet. Wooyoung can hear San moving around behind him, several other jars being placed beside the cauldron as Wooyoung stares at the enchanted mirror shard that keeps floating above the roiling sunshine liquid inside the vessel.

Stop being so nice, you fucker, Wooyoung thinks, annoyed that San won’t give him any reason to dislike him. It’s like his flawless existence and consideration for others are meant to poke holes in Wooyoung’s soul, a quiet  _ watch and learn  _ from the universe. Things would be so much easier if San was just a bully with a power complex and a lewd grin every time he looked at Wooyoung but he isn’t.

Instead, he’s a mostly quiet guy, well-mannered and ridiculously perfect. It doesn’t help at all that he has the prettiest face on the planet and a soft laugh that sounds like euphoria and beauty happened to coincidentally chance upon each other next to a brook in the forest.

Surely, it was unfair for someone to be this pretty and be nice while also not being a pushover all at the same time. Wooyoung knows he is good looking, the number of people who tried to court him was proof enough, but he isn’t as  _ nice _ as San is, and every moment spent with the other man is a constant reminder from the universe that there are people who are better than him out there. He’s not conceited enough to assume he is the best on the planet, but he’s never been considered less than that, always hailed by his family and the magic-user community as being someone who deserved all the respect because of the magic in his veins.

Wooyoung should get jealous, should feel the green tendrils of it curl around him ferociously, prompting him to do devious things, but he doesn’t, because he isn’t jealous of San. What he feels is so far away from jealousy that it would have been funny if Wooyoung didn’t spend half his time texting Yeosang endless epic-length keyboard smashes about the curve of San’s eyelashes or his cupid’s bow or how he helped out the barista at the coffee shop because she got anxious or how everything he does is just a sordid guidepost that says he’s out of Wooyoung’s league by a mile.

Wooyoung huffs as he turns to the cauldron and throws in the pickled cinnamon, scrunching his nose at the sharp smell that wafts from the vessel, stumbling back a little, San’s outstretched hand ready to catch him like he’s the damsel in distress in some poor man’s novel from the eighteenth century. Wooyoung drags the piercing on his tongue against the roof of his mouth, the silver barbell colliding softly with the flesh in order to stop himself from biting down on his tongue.

“Easy,” San says when Wooyoung huffs and turns in his arms.

It’s ironic because nothing about this has been easy. None of it will probably ever be.

“You said you’d be here at 8,” Wooyoung points out, sinking an incriminating finger in San’s chest, except it  _ doesn’t _ sink because San’s built like a fucking triangle  _ but _ the triangle is  _ ripped  _ too.

Wooyoung would much prefer to be ripped in other ways. 

_ By _ San.

Preferably by  _ San _ .

_ Only  _ by San.

“I left my house early but… I got hungry so I had to stop by and get dinner,” San tells him, looking anywhere but at him. Wooyoung frowns to himself, noticing the way San’s shoulders slump a little like his mood has suddenly taken a plunge to the unknown. 

A snap of his fingers lights up the bulbs hanging over their heads.

There are bags under San’s eyes, much more visible now that the light is falling on his face from different directions, not obscured partially by the darkness. He looks completely drained. San’s paler than usual too, his lips pink like they’re slowly gaining back color, black hair creating too much of a contrast than he’s used to that Wooyoung’s annoyance shifts to concern immediately. For what it’s worth, it’s not the first time Wooyoung has seen him like this, but an odd, sour feeling settles in his gut all the same.

“Hongjoong hyung told me you’d be late. Said you tried calling me. I forgot my phone at home,” Wooyoung says, voice softer than his usual loud self as he searches San’s face.

“I figured,” San says, his thin lips quirking a little, his gaze empty. Wooyoung isn’t convinced though.

“You okay?” Wooyoung asks, taking a step closer and setting a hand on San’s face, a harsh breath leaving him at how cold the other is to touch. San lets out a ragged exhale, eyes shutting for a second before he forces them open.

“San, you’re freezing,” Wooyoung breathes, worried.

“I just… get cold sometimes,” he murmurs, still not meeting Wooyoung’s gaze as he steps away, fingers already working on the zipper on his gloves. It’s nothing Wooyoung doesn’t know though. San did in fact run a little cooler than anyone else Wooyoung knew.

“I can whip up a mean warming potion,” Wooyoung says, tone fake-chipper even if it’s something San knows already, chest stinging a little from how the other had manoeuvred himself away from him.

“I’ll be fine,” San says, shrugging his coat off and putting it on his chair, rolling the sleeves of his black dress shirt as he saunters to the cauldron, peeking in.

Wooyoung shrugs, a little disappointed at the dismissal.

If San doesn’t want to tell him about it, Wooyoung won’t push.

“Suit yourself,” he says, stirring the potion, scowling at the smell. Wooyoung likes to think that the way San’s gaze flits down to his mouth is merely a fever dream whipped up as a result of exhaustion and nothing else. The mere possibility of it being something other than that is too chaotic to even consider.

“Besides, I don’t wanna get food poison,” San comments.

Wooyoung huffs a laugh to himself. He hears it for what it is.

A declaration of  _ war _ , but also a _ very _ obvious topic change.

Wooyoung turns to him with a heated look, eyebrows raised.

“It’s a potion, you brat! And for your information, I’m not one of the best potion makers in this realm for nothing,” Wooyoung grits, sticking his tongue out when San rolls his eyes. The other’s eyes linger on his mouth again. 

The piercing, Wooyoung knows, isn’t something a lot of people around the office has gotten used to though they ogled at his mouth every time they got an opportunity to. San has been very subtle about it, though that had been expected. It had been one of the first hints to Wooyoung as to how San may not be interested in Wooyoung the same way he is.

“Best potion maker you say and yet, you have no idea where your ingredients are!”

“It’s what I keep you around for.”

“I thought it was for my superior good looks and the connections I have.”

San’s leaning on the table now, mouth imitating a smoulder like that one guy from that stupid animated movie that always made Seonghwa cry, Evegene or Eugene or something.

The resemblance is uncanny so Wooyoung shakes his head to rid him of it, or the next thing he knows he’ll be looking up recipes for getting long golden hair that glows when he sings.

Doable, but unless he is assured about the end results, he won’t waste that kind of magic when a box of hair dye can do the same job with a lot less blood involved.

“Oh please,” Wooyoung says. “I miss Jongho,” he whines, letting out a long-suffering groan.

“No, you don’t. Not enough to send me away at least,” San says, clicking his tongue and following it up with a shit-eating grin.

He doesn’t. No offense, Jongho.

“I do,” Wooyoung insists, lying through his teeth.

“Thought you said you wouldn’t lie to me. Good witch vow or something?” San raises an eyebrow again.

Wooyoung wants to smack him, but he won’t. 

Unless provoked.

Which he is.

“Demons like you are the reason why good witches like us break our vows,” Wooyoung counters, a hand on his hip as the potion boils above the stove, the bubbling sound loud in the emptiness of the room.

“I’m not a demon though,” San says, winking.

Wooyoung  _ hates  _ it here. Absolutely hates it. Perhaps he should ring up the housekeeper at the manor and let him know he is coming home. He is  _ done _ .

“I have evidence proving otherwise,” Wooyoung states.

“Do you?” San asks, but it’s not really a question, just merely a quick retort designed to get Wooyoung to blow up.

“I will tell Seonghwa hyung on you,” Wooyoung threatens, legs a little shaky with San's undivided attention focused on him for longer than usual.

“Ooooh, I’m so terrified~” San sing-songs, hands in the air as he waves them around. 

“Merlin, you’re a menace,” Wooyoung grumbles, adding another stem of rosemary to the cauldron, nose picking up on an odd shift in smell he’s not used to.

The grin on San’s face grows impossibly wider. “Yeosang says it’s your influence.”

“Fuck Yeosang!” shrieks Wooyoung, simultaneously wanting to tackle San to the floor and roll around, swiping at him with his hands and then leaving to find Yeosang, his _ supposed _ best friend, and curse him for throwing him in the pit so easily.

Loyalty was dead to this generation of witches, wasn’t it?

“Thought he was your best friend,” San says, but his eyes are darker when Wooyoung turns to him.

“He—” Wooyoung stutters, biting down on the tip of his tongue. Why is San looking at him like that? “He is. You’re just dirty-minded.”

“Am I?” San asks, leaning into his space and reaching for something behind him, the sleeve of his dress shirt caressing his forearm. Wooyoung can feel San’s breathing on the side of his face, the scent of his musky cologne overpowering even the pungent smell of the potion.

Wooyoung freezes against the counter as San quite literally cages him in, feeling a little chilly with how cold San is to the touch. There’s the sound of a bottle lid unscrewing before it is poured into the boiling liquid in the time he’d been busy staring at the other.

“What did you do?” Wooyoung whispers as San leans back, one of his hands still gripping the granite counter beside Wooyoung’s hips. Up close, Wooyoung can count San’s eyelashes, his eyes impossibly dark, borderline aphotic, his chest expanding with how he breathes in, shakily exhaling, looking at Wooyoung like he’s trying to devour him.

Wooyoung wants him to, but this is just San being San. That’s all.

One day he’s pinning Wooyoung against the wall or hovering behind him close enough that if Wooyoung stumbled half a step back he’ll feel San’s chest against his back and on other days he’s a quiet presence three feet away from Wooyoung,  _ too _ far away, as he hands him ingredients in the looming silence that drains the water from Wooyoung’s throat.

There’s absolutely no way San wants him like that. Not thinking too much about it would be better for Wooyoung in the long run.

Wooyoung knows, but his heart hasn’t gotten the memo yet.

“Camphor oil,” San says, turning away like he was never in Wooyoung’s space, a muted grin on his face as he leans on the table with his elbows and faces him.

“Camphor oil?” Wooyoung asks himself before he realizes he’d forgotten to add it to the potion.

San nods, smiling.

Wooyoung takes one step to the side and steps on his foot.

“What the fuck was that for?” San screeches, all posturing disappearing at the onslaught of pain.

“Fuck you,” Wooyoung mouths because if he’s being honest, he has no clue why he did that either. 

A last-ditch effort at getting San to stop teasing him? Maybe.

“You wish,” San tells him, shaking his foot as if the action will help him get rid of the pain.

Wooyoung fumbles.

He _ does _ wish.

“Fuck you,” he emphasizes weakly, a beat too late, walking to the cabinet beside their fish tank and  _ away _ from San to get sampling bottles.

Wooyoung hates the way he feels San’s eyes on him the whole time.

He's lying. He loves it even though he knows that it doesn't mean anything. 

San is just too good at looking out for him. That’s it. 

Right?

Shoving the jade glass bottles into San’s hands, the other fumbling with them before he regains his balance, Wooyoung swivels on the heel of his boots, settling down on his chair with a hefty sigh, aching everywhere from how he’d helped Seonghwa and Yeosang in the evening with some urgent teleportation spells. 

When Wooyoung looks up, San’s gazing at him with a quirked eyebrow, lifting his chin a bit in a silent enquiry.

“You gonna sleep?” San asks, lifting the cork of a bottle with his index finger and thumb. 

“Yeah,” he says, not even sure if San can hear him. “Your fingers are gonna be raw. Use the cloth to open them,” Wooyoung suggests, opening one eye to see San stare at him with an indecipherable look.

San sets the bottle down to grab the satin cloth Wooyoung uses for the same purpose, throwing another concerned glance at Wooyoung.

“I’m okay. Just… tired,” he mumbles even if San hasn’t asked, but he doesn’t have to. He curls up like a cat in the chair, knowing Hongjoong wouldn’t mind if he saw him sleeping on the job considering he’d been the one to call the teleportation favor in. If he does, San will cover for him.

Indigo flashes at the corner of his vision, but Wooyoung shakes his head, eyes closing on their own accord, exhaustion dragging him under.

***

Wooyoung distinctly remembers the day San had joined the Oasis seven months ago. Wooyoung had been about to leave after a particularly gruelling day shift with Jongho when he’d found San standing outside Hongjoong’s office, shifting on his feet in a clear show of nerves.

The rookie energy had been off the charts. Wooyoung had checked with Jongho before he approached San, hoping to ease the nerves of the new guy. The staff at their office weren’t all friends, but their secrets were similar, and Wooyoung had always been too social for his own good. He knew to stay away from people his magic didn’t trust, gut twisting uncomfortably when he would be in the presence of someone who rubbed him the wrong way, but San had been all warmth and nervous energy, prompting him to reach out without hesitation.

Fiddling with the sleeve of his long mahogany trench coat and slacks with matching boots and red and black hair, one side slicked to the back, it was clear that he’d dressed to impress. 

A single glance thrown in his direction had made Wooyoung think,  _ vampire _ , but then San had smiled at him, all nervous anticipation, lean eyes crinkling up softly, all the sharp angles of his dangerous face suddenly tender, and Wooyoung couldn’t possibly have allowed his brain to think of the other’s teeth sinking into people’s necks and drawing blood.

“Should I just… knock or?” San had asked, fidgeting with his gloved hands, nothing like the cocky bastard he is to Wooyoung these days, teeth nibbling his bottom lip.

“Yeah, yeah. He is probably sleeping. Don’t worry. Hongjoong hyung’s pretty chill,” Wooyoung had said, aware of the way San had not so subtly checked him out after he was done with a small smile of gratitude.

They’d introduced themselves in the time it took for Hongjoong to yell out a  _ wait a minute _ after San had knocked, Jongho trying to drag Wooyoung away because he was in a hurry to get to his date with Yeosang. 

Looking back, Wooyoung knows that it was just a stupid crush because San was ridiculously pretty. He was surrounded by gorgeous men and women, but there was something so different, so unique about San that had pulled Wooyoung in from the get-go. 

Wooyoung was perfectly content crushing on the man from a distance, seeing him randomly on the days he stayed a little late with Jongho to finish up some potions or help Yeosang with his herbarium, a wave or a smirk thrown his way. Surviving on screeching to Jongho all day about San had become a habit of sorts too, not that Wooyoung minded it at all.

Then, Jongho had been summoned back to his pack after the head of the pack, his uncle passed away, leaving the mantle open for the next in line. Wooyoung had been heartbroken, three years of partnership, of a quiet bond of brotherhood doing nothing to keep Jongho by his side.

“What? I can’t even be sad about you leaving? The next thing I know, you would have married Yeosang and I wouldn’t even be invited to the wedding!” Wooyoung had quipped when Jongho told him, scowling as he threw the rosemary stem on his desk which soundlessly fell on the wooden surface. 

“It’s not even a big deal.” Jongho had said as he reached out, taking Wooyoung’s hand as he knelt in front of him, balancing himself on one knee.

“But it  _ is _ a big deal. I’m gonna have to work with some prick who doesn’t even know where my pickled cinnamon jars are!”

“Hyung, you can just tell them where they are! Hell, I can even make a list of where your things are so that whichever poor soul is joining you can escape your hexes.”

“It sucks being left behind, Jongho,” Wooyoung had said, pouting again. 

“You’re not being left behind! I’ll call you and text you and make time for you whenever I can. Besides, we have our entire team here. You’re not even gonna notice that I’m gone,” Jongho had reassured, but the last line had broken Wooyoung’s heart even if he tried to hold the fort down by squeezing Jongho’s fingers in his. 

There had been no point in arguing, in trying to hold on because, in the end, there had been no stopping Jongho from leaving. Wooyoung could baby him for an eternity, but that didn’t change the truth. 

Though video calls and texts didn’t feel the same, it was something Wooyoung had to force himself to come to terms with because in the end, family was very important to Jongho, and Wooyoung refused to stand in the way of that.

In hindsight, Wooyoung should have known that like all good things in his life, this stint with Jongho wouldn’t last either. Of course, something would have to break and prove how bad luck was constantly nipping away at his heels.

Wooyoung was used to it, but there was no point bemoaning a fate when he’d been taught ever since he was little that things would never stay the same, that something good always happened to even out something bad and vice versa, so when Hongjoong had called him to his cabin a day after Jongho left, Wooyoung had felt his magic thrive in his veins, happy little tendrils threatening to escape the confines of his skin, so much that Wooyoung had had to glamour himself on the way to the office to stop his magic from exposing his identity to the mundanes.

“We don’t have anyone willing to do a day shift, Wooyoung, but we do have an open slot in the night shift. Another one of our witches got transferred and they aren’t sending anyone to make up for it,” Hongjoong had informed him.

“Then, I’ll join the night shift,” Wooyoung had acceded, nervously scratching at his elbow. 

He and Jongho had always asked Hongjoong for a night slot, mostly because their circadian rhythm was fucked up, but they were too packed in the night, considering how it was more convenient and safer for vampires and other nocturnal beings to work the late shifts. He was fine with the time, though he’d been nervous about who he’d be working with. He knew quite a number of douchebags from the night shifts who liked to get all up in his space whenever they crossed paths during the weekly full office meetings, cornering him and trying to lay a claim on him until Jongho came to his rescue or Wooyoung himself hexed them temporarily. 

So when Wooyoung had walked to the basement floor three months ago, opening the cabin Hongjoong said he’d be sharing with his partner to find a familiar face, he’d been gobsmacked at first before the realization of the upcoming torture he’d have to put himself through dawned upon him.

Of course, karma had to be a bitch and give him  _ San _ of all people.

“Hey,” San had said, waving at him, his hair all black now, ( _ Twinning _ , Wooyoung’s head teasing him already), a silly grin on his face, eyes practically sparkling as he looked at him.

_ I am screwed _ , Wooyoung had thought to himself as he waved back, shrugging his coat off to find San watching him with scrutinizing eyes that seemed to flicker a shade of purple for a second.

“Well, let’s get the party started,” Wooyoung had said, magic reacting to his adrenaline rush by doing fucking somersaults inside him.

The rest as they say, is history.

It’s easy to think about it when Wooyoung’s curled in the chair like this, watching San clean up the mess he’s made brewing the potion. It’s adorable, how he’s trying to be quiet, probably trying to not wake Wooyoung up.

“I can feel your eyes on me, you know?” San says, lifting the cauldron and setting it down on the brace on the floor.

_ Fuck. _

“Not my fault that you look like you’re trying to rob this place,” Wooyoung counters.

“Just for that, I’ll be sure to create a ruckus next time you’re sleeping in the office,” San says, annoyance clear in the way he sets the now-empty pickled cinnamon jar in the sink.

“Promises, promises,” Wooyoung teases.

Turning to look at him, San opens his mouth to retort something, but his jaw clicks shut as soon as he lays his eyes on him. His gaze burns Wooyoung, crimson and black twining restlessly inside his veins.

If Wooyoung is conceited enough, he’d assume that his beauty has stunned San to speechlessness, but he isn’t, not when he knows that people like San don’t end up with people like him.

The thought hurts, but it’s the truth, and Wooyoung is perfectly content just pining from afar.

Well, not really, but he’ll have to make do.

***

San is a witch. 

Wooyoung tends to forget it sometimes. It’s mostly because San’s just San to him, someone whom he can be screaming at the top of his lungs about a particular potion’s recipe or quietly huddle against on days when he’s dog tired from brewing too many potions or helping his neighbour who asks him for little magical favors every now and then in exchange for their lilac supply.

It’s one of those days when Wooyoung’s magic is singing to him, something melodious and loud in sudden spurts, and Wooyoung feels a headache begin to take form in the back of his temples.

The full moon must be the cause of the issue, so Wooyoung heaves and pushes through sorting the moonstones in front of him. He flicks his gaze to San for a brief moment and finds that the other witch is staring at a bluish green one, the intensity of its adularescence making Wooyoung remind himself to add it to the Potion for the Pitiful.

“You gonna stop staring at it and get to work or are you not ready to stop slacking off yet?” Wooyoung jokes with a grin.

San’s gaze lifts to him. There’s something that he seems to have difficulty in vocalizing. Wooyoung shifts in his seat, scrunching his eyebrows as he waits for San to spit it out, smile fading.

“Why don’t you sort the blue-green ones?” San asks, ignoring Wooyoung’s question entirely.

Wooyoung doesn’t think much of it, already tired, the clock about to strike seven which means they’ve both stayed an hour past the time of their shift. Nodding an affirmation, too tired to argue or demand an explanation, Wooyoung exchanges his white moonstone jar for the one beside San which Wooyoung hadn’t even noticed he hadn’t been touching. 

They’ve been at this for a good hour, and it is only now that Wooyoung sees that all San’s done is pick out the moonstones with a silver sheen, ones which are white through and through. No wonder Mingi liked to tell him that his attention span was in the negative end of the number system.

Speak of the devil and he shall appear.

“Hey, losers,” Mingi guffaws, patting San’s back as he saunters into the room. San grunts at the force of the blow as Wooyoung winces at the sound.

“Get your grubby hands off of him,” Wooyoung says, voice a little sharper than he intends it to be. Mingi doesn’t even flinch.

“Or what?” The tall vampire asks, squeezing San’s shoulder hard enough that Wooyoung feels San’s knuckles turn white from where he’s holding onto the edge of their shared ebony desk for purchase. San’s eyes lift up to meet his, and there’s curiosity in their depths.

It’s strange. 

Why is he curious?

“You’re on uber thin ice, Mingi. Full moon’s close and my magic’s been screaming at me all day. Get your hands off or I’ll hex you so hard, even Seonghwa hyung won’t be able to help you,” Wooyoung threatens, ready to pull Mingi’s hands off if need be. It’s only half-hearted because he knows Mingi won’t hurt San, but it’s still something Wooyoung will go through with because the other’s a vampire and a really bad judge of his strength.

“Okay, Wooyoungie, I’ll let your Sannie go,” Mingi sing-songs as he pulls his hands away from San and throws them up in the air.

“He’s not my—”  _ Sannie, _ Wooyoung scrambles to correct, but he doesn’t get to finish as San gets up, the table rattling with the force.

San smirks demonically as he puts the other in a headlock, leaning down to grit something in his ear which has Mingi’s eyes going wide in horror. 

“Merlin, you’re ruthless, San,” Mingi says, voice practically dripping with disbelief. Wooyoung wonders what San could have possibly told the vampire for him to be this terrified.

“Threats aside, I came here to tell you guys about the party at our place. Hongjoong hyung feels like we have all been working too hard with Halloween coming up next month and he wants us to unwind a little,” Mingi says, dragging a chair and settling down next to San, his head resting on the back of his hand.

It was true. They had all been trying to drive themselves to the ground with the amount of orders they’ve been getting for spooky season. With every year that went by, the number of orders was steadily increasing, mostly with the Breach opening up schools for supernatural beings on this realm, so most families spent Halloween here instead of the other side where it was easier to procure potions, crystals and other paraphernalia needed for Halloween ceremonies.

Teleportation magic was expensive, so it was much easier to spend Halloween in the mundane realm. Wooyoung understands the choice of most members of his community, but their choice is why he and San are here, stuck working overtime when they should both be home, snuggled up under their blankets.

Wooyoung had made nearly ten cauldrons of potions just tonight, finally collapsing on his chair only for San to press his godly hands on the sore muscles. He had bitten his lip to the point that he’d tasted blood from how hard he’d had to try to keep the sounds to himself, certain that he’d be moaning loudly enough for the nearby crystals department to assume that he was getting fucked in here.

Wooyoung wouldn’t mind them thinking that, but he wasn’t getting fucked, not by San or anyone for that matter, so he had tried his best to stay silent.

Gossip traveled faster than the light at their office, and the last thing Wooyoung wanted to see was to have a magnet on the fridge in their breakroom that announced his sex life, wrongfully assumed sex life that is, considering how he didn’t have one.

Even if he’d be all in if San wanted to.

Which he doesn’t.

“Is he inviting everyone?” Wooyoung asks, fingers absent-mindedly picking at moonstones again, setting them aside on the basis of their colors, the pad of his thumb smoothing over a particularly rough one. 

“I think he is,” Mingi says, gaze travelling to the pile of moonstones before he flinches, staring wide-eyed at San and back at the moonstones.

“Dude, what the fuck are you doing?” Mingi shrieks, leaping out of his chair.

“Mingi, what the fuck?” San seethes back, glaring at the tall vampire.

“Guys?” Wooyoung says in confusion only to get ignored.

“San, this is getting too much. You can’t just—” Mingi gestures at the table and the jars of moonstones, teeth clacking as he shuts up, stopping dead in his tracks.

San’s too quiet as he glares Mingi down, sighing and rubbing a hand over his face when the other doesn’t show any signs of relenting. Wooyoung doesn’t miss the glance he directs his way and the heavy sigh that follows.

“I can,” San spits, cutting off anything else Mingi was about to say, eyes practically blazing, lifting himself to his feet and mumbling about getting some coffee as he storms out of the room.

“Mingi, what the fuck just happened?” Wooyoung asks, feeling like he’s been left out of an important loop.

Mingi’s face morphs into one of discomfort and regret, and Wooyoung’s heart drops.

“Mingi, tell me what’s up,” Wooyoung tries, this time softer.

The vampire looks up from the moonstones with a guilty expression, almost apologetic as he tilts his head to the ceiling and rolls his neck.

“I can’t. It’s not my place to say,” Mingi says airily, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“What do you mean it’s not your place to say?” Wooyoung asks, frustration hiking.

Mingi groans like he is suffering inside.

“Dude, I can’t, okay? San will end me,” Mingi mutters, and there’s genuine fear tacked on to the end.

“Fuck. Okay,” Wooyoung relents, swallowing hard.

“I’m sorry, Wooyoung. It’s just…” Mingi trails off, puppy eyes directed full force at him even as they glint orange for a brief second.

“I get it. Not your secret to share,” Wooyoung mumbles. Despite his faith in his incredible coercion skills, Wooyoung doesn’t think it’s fair for him to push Mingi any further because the vampire is just being a good friend. Besides, it’s San’s secret to spill. It wasn’t like finding out Yeosang’s kinks for Jongho or locking Mingi up with Seonghwa and Hongjoong for them to sort their shit out. This was different.

Because San’s involved? His head provides helpfully, and Wooyoung's spirit wilts a little.

Mingi sits back down, this time where San was before. Wooyoung briefly contemplates if he should ask the vampire to switch seats because it feels wrong to look at Mingi sitting where San was minutes ago.

It’s just a stupid seat, Wooyoung tells himself and bites his tongue.

“If you weren’t such an idiot, things would be so much easier for the both of you,” Mingi says, accentuating the words with a handful of white moonstones dropping to the bottom of an empty jar. Wooyoung tries to close the full jar in his hand, holding the bottom of it to his chest when Mingi leans over and grabs it, closing it with ease thanks to his vampire strength.

“Hey, watch it. I can hex you with my eyes closed,” Wooyoung warns teasingly, eyeing the way Mingi is pointedly ignoring the blue moonstones, long fingers dancing across the table and touching only the white ones.

“It’s not like they were open anyway,” Mingi retorts, and Wooyoung gets up from his seat just to smack the other’s head.

Even if they end up laughing about it, Wooyoung can’t ignore the feeling that Mingi’s words are supposed to mean something more.

***

“Are you going to the party?” San asks him when he returns with two cups in hand. Wooyoung sniffs the air, smiling as he registers the familiar scent of coffee. San must have gone to the cafe next to their office.

Wooyoung makes grabby hands for the cup, San handing it to him without protesting which says enough about how tired he must be.

“Seonghwa hyung will nag if I don’t,” Wooyoung says, scratching absent-mindedly at his jaw as he leans against the counter. “Are you going?”

San watches him carefully, like he’s trying to make his decision on the basis of how Wooyoung is standing.

“If you are,” San says, a few seconds later, running a hand through his messy hair, product making it stick up at odd angles. 

“I probably will,” Wooyoung confirms.

Wooyoung pads over to him, setting the cup down to smooth his hair down, running his fingers through slightly sticky hair, gel having clumped his hair up in some areas. San shifts to accommodate him better, crouching a little even if he isn’t much taller than Wooyoung.

“There,” Wooyoung says, brows furrowing at how San seems a little green in the face as he whispers  _ thanks,  _ face flushed, eyes wide.

Is San holding his breath? Did Wooyoung smell or something? He subtly takes a short whiff of his own scent, finding nothing particularly odd.

“Breathe, you fucker,” Wooyoung says and steps out of his space, grabbing the coffee cup and taking a large gulp, not containing the groan that escapes him at the warmth that fills his mouth.

“Merlin,” Wooyoung hears San murmur to himself before he downs the entire coffee in one go.

What the fuck is up with San today?

“You’re going to burn your tongue,” Wooyoung points out, concerned.

“Already done,” San says, looking at him with eyes that scream hunger, something awfully close to desire that spins around like a tornado inside them. Wooyoung blinks and he’s back to normal, almost like he had imagined it.

Maybe Wooyoung’s projecting. There is no way San wants him. If he did, he would have done something about it, right?

“Come here, you,” Wooyoung says, snapping his fingers with his eyes closed, healing magic curling around San as he walks to him, crimson filling the space between them.

“You didn’t have to,” San replies, awed, eyes following the tendrils receding from him to Wooyoung’s hands.

“I’m gonna go home,” Wooyoung says, putting his coat on as San watches him, hand still holding the empty coffee cup.

“Let me drop you home,” San says, kicking down on the lever of the bin in the room and throwing the cup inside it.

It’s hard to convince himself that San doesn’t like him back even the tiniest bit when he does things like this, when he offers to take him home even if Wooyoung knows that his house is in an entirely different direction. Wooyoung used to try to convince the other that he doesn’t have to go to the trouble of dropping him home, that he likes the peace of mind he gets on his walk back home, but after a few days of San walking with him, Wooyoung had felt bad, so he had stopped turning down his rides.

Wooyoung’s heart swells when San offers him an additional coat, probably noticing that he’s trying to burrow further inside his fluffy jacket. Wooyoung takes it with a grateful smile instead of trying to fight him on it, taking deep inhales of San’s cologne and his inherent scent, woody like the forest with a bit of the essence of the mist above the mountain, Wooyoung’s nose picking up on the undertones of it from being incredibly sensitive with the full moon coming up.

He hadn’t even noticed when his eyes had slipped shut, so he is surprised to find San staring at him, mouth slack and eyes fiery like coal.

“Let’s,” Wooyoung clears his throat when it comes out sounding too gentle, too  _ fond _ . “Let’s go?” He asks, unintentionally serious.

San nods, hand lifting as if he is about to run his fingers through his hair. Wooyoung observes him closely as his hand halts midway, dropping to his side as he smiles softly at Wooyoung, like he’s just remembered that he had just fixed his hair for him.

Wooyoung wonders what it would be like to lean in and press a kiss to the corner of his lips, wonders if his warmth will be enough for San who always seemed to be running a bit too cold for Wooyoung’s liking, but reality kicks in like a boot to his gut and Wooyoung smothers down the urge, the very thought process falling down the drain and floating away with the tide.

San waits outside, leaning back against the door of his car, gaze fixated on him as Wooyoung climbs the stairs to his floor. Wooyoung hates how San’s always so well-mannered and gentlemanly. It’s harder to convince himself that nothing’s going on when San does things like this.

Wooyoung doesn’t live in a huge apartment complex, not because he can’t afford it, but because he doesn’t think he can handle feeling alone amidst a hundred people. Instead, it’s just a three floor apartment building that he stays in, two apartments on each floor. It’s easier like this, where there’s hardly eight people altogether in the complex. Wooyoung shares the second floor with a nurse, Yeonjun, and his boyfriend, Soobin, who was an editor at some firm in the city. He knows everyone who lives there, and it helps that they are all aware of the Oasis and his magical exploits since they are all registered mundanes who know about the existence of the Breach and its sister organizations.

Halting in his tracks, remembering his partner, Wooyoung inclines his head, balancing a hand on the metal railing to look down only to see San’s frown turn to a shy grin as he squints against the sun.

Wooyoung lets his lips curl up, waving once more, mouthing a  _ go home, you idiot _ , before he turns away sharply, heart clenching painfully in his chest.

The door chortles as he opens it, the enchanted wood chattering about the landlord who had apparently come by to look for him with a request for an aphrodisiac. Wooyoung shuts the door behind him, smiling to himself only for it to drop as the lilies on the window sill die at his first touch like they have done every day for the past three months.

Maybe tomorrow they won’t.

***

Wooyoung has noticed that San doesn’t use his magic much, or at all, if he’s being honest. He is super strong, Wooyoung knows, what with the way he lifts cauldrons double his size without breaking a sweat or how there are indentations on the granite counter in their brewery corner and the two desks they own because San always seems to want something to hold onto when Wooyoung is nearby. 

The really horny part of Wooyoung actively likes to taunt him with vivid images of San throwing him around and having his way with him, but then the logical side kicks in, guilt flooding his chest at how it feels like he's wronging someone who considers him a good friend and trusts him.

Wooyoung has wondered secretly if San’s a dark witch because that would explain the way San flinches away from him some nights when he hovers close, growing paler by the second before he rushes out of their cabin, returning with drinks or snacks for them to binge on.

The only problem with that theory is that Wooyoung’s magic is entirely too content in San’s presence, curling into a ball and snoring away on the nights Wooyoung doesn’t have much to do, or boiling away in his veins in a way Wooyoung knows has nothing to do with it feeling threatened or wronged, but everything to do with the way a familiar heat is set alight by every lingering touch San leaves on him unknowingly.

It’s when Wooyoung can barely feel his magic in his veins that he feels worried because even with Seonghwa who’s a healer witch, his magic had struggled against every barrier he’d set before it slowly stopped acting up. It’s a defense mechanism, something that is meant as a reminder for Wooyoung to tread lightly, to practice caution because his lineage is one that has hundreds of witches who have helped end the practice of the dark arts, and yet, his magic doesn’t seem threatened by San’s presence at all, an unspeakable, almost undefinable calm washing over him when the other is nearby.

Wooyoung gets curious sometimes though, but he values his friendship with San more than the exact strain of the magic in him, so he keeps his mouth shut and doesn’t push the other to help him with his spells. Maybe someday, San will tell him who he is, and Wooyoung is willing to wait till that happens, refusing to ask anyone in the office he is sure will know the realm the other belongs to. 

Wooyoung’s not the most patient person out there, but he thinks he can wait this time because pushing San isn’t worth it, because he knows that use of magic is a sensitive topic for some witches.

Wooyoung’s probably too lost in his thoughts because unintentionally, light red, almost pink tendrils envelop San who’s setting the jade jars inside a cardboard box. He turns wide-eyed to Wooyoung, eyes flashing purple for a second that Wooyoung pointedly ignores.

“Wooyoung,” San calls out, a silent question seeking explanation as to why he’s being enveloped in Wooyoung’s magic.

“It just… wants to comfort you,” Wooyoung grits, overwhelmed by how the ends of his magic caress San’s skin, sending shivers down his body as he clenches his fists to himself, not particularly fond of the way his magic isn’t listening to him.

“It’s okay. You’re good,” San tells him, warm smile crinkling the corners of his eyes. It’s breathtaking how his intense gaze can shift so easily to something so tender, his voice dropping comfortingly low.

“Is it?” Wooyoung asks out loud, a little tense from how in control he feels despite his magic not listening to him, acting like a sentient being when Wooyoung knows that it is just reacting to what he wants. It feels like it is taunting him, almost calling him out to do the same and…  _ touch _ San.

“Yeah. I think it’s cute.”

Wooyoung feels himself blush from head to toe, feeling like a traffic light with how his magic retreats from San to encase him.

San’s laugh doesn’t chime like a bell, instead it’s a little squeaky when he is unguarded, and Wooyoung smiles as the sound echoes in the four walls of their cabin.

***

“Do we have to?” San asks for the umpteenth time, eyes bearing down on Wooyoung’s as he leans against the cool metal and glass of the bus.

“San, I’ve told you this a hundred times. We  _ have _ to,” Wooyoung grumbles.

They’re going on an errand tonight, a visit to the Preacher’s abode on the other side. The alcove is situated in a niche at the edge of the city’s boundary line, one of the very few permanent eternity doors in Seoul.

Wooyoung can easily draw up a portal and go through to the other side if he wished as he has done before, but Hongjoong had asked him to take San with him. Wooyoung didn’t want to mess up with portal magic, especially since he wasn’t too used to taking people with him.

It’s usually Hongjoong who goes to get supplies on the other side, but he had fallen sick from braving his way through the rain two days ago, punishment for being a pluviophile having a little too much fun in the middle of the unexpected rain. Seonghwa had refused to heal him, and requested Wooyoung to not do it either, telling him that  _ brats needed to be taught a lesson _ . Mingi had given him pitiful looks, but Wooyoung was way more scared of Seonghwa than he was of Mingi, so he hadn’t fallen for the puppy eyes.

“Well then, why don’t you go get the Forbidden chest from the Preacher, Wooyoungie?” Hongjoong had asked the moment Wooyoung stepped into the cabin to give him a recipe for a special brew, feeling bad for not being able to help, something Hongjoong could make on his own since Wooyoung couldn’t heal him. Hongjoong had snivelled as he curled up in his chair, grumbling  _ thanks _ before he explained what Wooyoung had to do.

Wooyoung hadn’t expected such an important task to be assigned to him. Preachers weren’t ones to be messed with, especially since they were so trigger happy. Even so much as a look that rubbed them wrong could get visitors killed. They usually demanded things in return for the objects they needed too, but Hongjoong had assured him that a vial of fire elixir was enough though he’d made a cryptic remark when Wooyoung had prodded further.

So here Wooyoung is, leaning against the back of a strangely crowded bus considering how late it is, one of San’s arms braced against the glass behind him. The rush is probably because it’s a Friday night, most people catching the last bus of the night.

San’s car had broken down on his way to the office tonight, and no one at the office was free to drop them off at the eternity door. Mingi had told them that he’d clear up a slot after midnight and come to pick them up, but that he couldn’t help with it now, something about chaperoning a coven leader from the council.

Wooyoung shifts, starting to sweat a little from the heat of having so many people stand so close. The man next to him shifts a little closer, eyeing him up not so subtly, and Wooyoung bites his lip, looking up at San who’s pressed close, his gaze everywhere except on him. 

The movement must gain San’s attention because he glares at the man who does nothing to shift away, pressing in closer. A small sound of protest leaves Wooyoung’s mouth as he moves to the side again, his hand going to the collar of San’s black dress shirt because they’re pressed tightly to the window side now, nothing for Wooyoung to balance himself on.

“I’m sorry,” Wooyoung says, realizing what he’s done and moving to take his hand off. San’s hand comes up to latch on his, tightening.

“It’s okay. You can keep it there,” San says, gaze flicking to the stranger again with a look that screams murder.

Wooyoung whimpers when the bus swerves sharply and he fumbles on San’s collar, the fabric too delicate to properly hold onto. He feels a little too overwhelmed from the heat from the bus except for San who’s as cold as he always is, a relief to Wooyoung than a cause for concern this time. San’s hand squeezes his fingers before he drags his other hand up to place it on his shoulder.

“Better now?” He asks, leaning in closer, his black hair falling into his eyes. Wooyoung is torn between wanting to brush the strands away and looking at San’s face and letting them stay, liking the way San’s gaze is focused on him even with his hair in the way.

Wooyoung looks down at his feet and nods, his head brushing against San’s chest as he does so, San’s shoulder muscles shifting under his hand.

It’s a few moments later when the stranger inches closer like he can’t take a hint, a hand crawling to his hip, but before Wooyoung can move, San’s eyes flash, his free hand gripping the other man’s offending limb.

“Touch him and I’ll rip your throat out with my teeth,” San growls lowly enough that he’s certain no one except the three of them hears it. 

“What are you gonna do, huh?” The stranger taunts, now leering at Wooyoung with a lewd grin on his cracked lips.

San laughs softly, the smile on his face predatory. Wooyoung has a hard time reining in his magic which is trying to slip out and curl around San in a bid to comfort him whilst also wanting to attack the stranger. He doesn’t want to let his anger drive a curse that could potentially damage another six generations.

There’s a moment when San and the stranger have a staring match, and then the man’s eyes bulge out as he gazes down at his limb, tears welling up in his eyes, San’s grip tightening impossibly around it. 

Wooyoung hears a sharp crack, his eyes scrunching shut in response, and then the man  _ screams _ , yelling at the driver to stop. The bus screeches to a halt as he shoves his way past the passengers, broken wrist cradled to his chest as he leaps out of the bus.

It takes several moments for Wooyoung to understand that San had just  _ broken _ someone’s wrist with one hand, all because he tried to touch Wooyoung.

_ What the fuck?  _

“What the fuck?” Wooyoung breathes out loud, gazing up at San. “Did you just… Did you just break that guy’s wrist, San?” 

San doesn’t meet his gaze. “I’m sorry. I just… I couldn’t let him do that.”

_ Why?  _ Wooyoung almost asks, stuck between wanting to thank San and hounding him to tell him the reason.

“Merlin, you scared me,” Wooyoung says instead, resting his head against the other’s chest, feeling exhausted all of a sudden.

“I am so sorry. I didn’t mean to, but the bastard had it coming,” San says, gaze hardening at the end as he looks at the road behind Wooyoung as if the stranger is running behind them.

“You can’t do that, okay? You can’t just go around and break people’s wrists, San!” Wooyoung hisses furiously. “But thank you for defending me. I would have done something, but it’s good to know you have my back.”

Wooyoung lightly squeezes San’s shoulder in gratitude, closing his eyes and tipping his head back to take a deep breath, taking a moment to himself to register that he was about to be felt up just minutes ago.

“Wooyoung, just breathe.”

Wooyoung fumbles with his words, settling for silence when nothing comes to mind, choosing to just let himself sag against San as much as the crowded bus will allow him to.

A woman who had moved to the back when the other man had left gives him a concerned look.

“You okay?” She mouths at him.

Wooyoung nods, hooking his chin over San’s shoulder to stop San as he begins to pull away.

“Please,” he whispers in San’s ears, needing another moment of the coolness San’s radiating.

San crouches a little, setting his chin on Wooyoung’s shoulder in return in silence.

Wooyoung watches the woman clear his throat and turn away like she’s intruding on something intimate. Wooyoung’s too lost in his head to care, San’s cool body the only thing anchoring him. He puts his other arm on San’s shoulder when he feels the other’s chest shudder under him as he inhales slowly like he’s trying to not breathe in too much.

Wooyoung swats weakly at San’s chest.

“Stop holding your breath,” he says, resting his cheek against the side of San’s neck, getting a strained laugh in return.

It’s probably just the people around them, Wooyoung figures.

***

The doorkeeper bows as soon as he sees Wooyoung. He can feel San’s searching gaze on him, slightly shocked, but he hides it well when Wooyoung gestures for the man to straighten up as he tells him where they need to go.

San won’t ask now, Wooyoung knows. San is aware of his lineage, what his family means, what the implications of Wooyoung being a Jung are, but the other has never tried to poke through the wall Wooyoung has put up for this one thing.

It’s nothing to do with himself and everything to do with his legacy. The Jung family of witches and their particular brand of good magic which drew from everything on the living realm and the dead, red and black tendrils that nestled inside Wooyoung’s chest, forever a source of warmth for himself and a nightmare for the ones who know not to cross him if the time comes.

Hunted, killed, resurrected.

The cycle is still ongoing.

San brushes a strand of hair back from his face, his fingers cold.

“You okay?” He asks, eyes soft. The fabric of San’s shirt that covers his shoulders is soaked through from Wooyoung’s clammy palms that had gripped there earlier. Wooyoung brushes his fingers over the material with clear intent this time, and nods to San’s question, watching the wet spots disappear, red tinting the air for a bit before it disappears.

“You didn’t have to,” San murmurs. Wooyoung waves a hand in dismissal.

Wooyoung pushes a sweaty hand through his equally sweaty hair, trying to tear his attention away from San and how pretty he is like this, eyelashes nearly gold from the eternity door that is opening slowly, his dark eyes reflecting the glow of the portal.

“Master Jung, you can step in now,” the door keeper tells him, pointedly ignoring San. This one gesture makes it clear that the man had merely been sticking it up to him for a wish or two. Wooyoung frowns to himself. 

He had thought better of the fae community.

Not very fond of the display of ingenuine loyalty, Wooyoung doesn’t even glance back at the man as he grabs San’s wrist and closes the distance between them and the eternity door.

He feels San’s fingers glide down as he intertwines their hands properly, his skin pleasantly cool as it meets Wooyoung’s warmth.

***

Wooyoung hasn’t really gone through a portal with San, so when they finally reach the other side, his first instinct is to laugh at how green San looks in the face. He lets San hold on to his waist for a bit as he stands hunched over before he decides to take mercy on him, allowing clandestine crimson to wrap around the other, healing the teleportation-induced nausea.

Wooyoung throws a look of acknowledgement at the doorkeeper, another fae who doesn’t do him the courtesy of a bow, merely lazily giving him a salute that seems half annoyed than out of respect.

Wooyoung appreciates the honesty. He also silently hopes the fae doesn’t pull this on any of his other family members because she wouldn’t be able to speak a word in her defense in the time it would take for them to fire her.

“You couldn’t have helped like ten seconds ago when I was dying?” San snarks, blissfully (well, jury’s still out on that since he’s  _ still _ gagging) unaware of Wooyoung’s ponderings.

“Hey, it’s not every day that I get to chaperone first timers around,” Wooyoung sasses back, though his hand is still rubbing San’s back soothingly because he’s hopelessly whipped for him before he is a bitch.

There are unicorn carriages outside the highly warded alcove where the eternity door is, but Wooyoung takes one look at San and decides that they should probably use the walk to the Preacher’s place to get the other to gather his bearings. He won’t let it be that easy for San though.

“Let’s go in this. We’ll reach there quicker,” Wooyoung throws over his shoulder as he walks in the direction of the unicorn carriages. San doesn’t follow him, and Wooyoung doesn’t have to glance around to sense the way San’s grimacing.

Wooyoung walks a little more and then halts in his steps, spinning around on his feet to catch San’s rolling his eyes at him, blowing his bangs out of his face, a small pout forming on his lips. Wooyoung feels warmth settle in his gut at the sight.

“I don’t want to,” San tells him after a moment where he looks like he is debating with himself.

“I know, you idiot. I’m just messing with you.”

“Fuck you,” San huffs even as he wraps a careful arm around his shoulder, looking way better than he did seconds ago.

***

The trek to the Preacher’s place isn’t very long, hardly a fifteen-minute walk that gets longer only because Wooyoung’s huddled close to San. He’s got an arm looped around San’s elbow not because he’s cold, but because San’s body temperature is a fickle little thing with a mind of its own. The air is cooler here in the other side, attuned to the majority of the supernatural population who tend to be warm-blooded.

Except for vampires and selkies of course. 

“You’re really warm,” San comments as they take a turn around the nook Wooyoung vaguely remembers to be where a broom shop was situated. This isn’t the first time San has acknowledged how warm he is, but Wooyoung takes the opening.

“Isn’t it just fangtastic?” Wooyoung says, using the opportunity to rub his cheek against San’s bicep, feeling pleased with himself for the vampire pun. Maybe he should use it with Mingi next time. The other will probably flash his fangs at him, but he won’t hurt him.

Maybe.

San tenses in his hold before he unfreezes, tugging Wooyoung closer with the hand he has around his waist, his cold fingers a blissful sensation against his sweater.

“Your humor sense is dying a very quick death, Young-ah,” San bites with a smirk, grunting when Wooyoung digs his elbow into his ribs. 

The Preacher’s abode is situated on the ninth stone from the lake where the merfolk reside. The last time Wooyoung was here, he was barely ten years old, hiding behind his mom’s dress as a man had blessed him with a hand on his head. The man had black fabric covering his face and white lines that moved like a Rorschach mask except that the colors were inverted.

“San,” he calls just as San is about to knock on the wooden door with his knuckles, “no matter what you do. Don’t stare.”

San wrinkles his nose in confusion. “You’ve been here before?”

“Yeah. Some witches in our family get blessed by the Preacher when the mark of the fallen appears.”

Wooyoung remembers the way heat had licked at his skin, his entire body glowing red as a red dragon appeared above his heart, carved by magic three days before Halloween. His parents had shut the door to his bedroom and watched him writhe in pain on the bed, their mouths open in a constant chanting of warding spells that little Wooyoung had taken years to understand. A mountain had appeared a few moments later, to the side of his ribs, just as he finished screaming his throat out from the pain of the mark of the fallen that adorned the skin over his chest. In a turn of events, the dragon had moved slowly and painfully down to the mountain, perching on top of it and curling on the peak with its eyes closed.

San snaps his fingers in front of him, pulling Wooyoung right out of his memory.

“Mark of the fallen?” San asks quietly.

“I’ll tell you on the way back,” Wooyoung says, knowing that explaining his family’s complicated history will take more than the few minutes they spend outside the house of arguably one of the powerful beings of the other side.

There’s a part of him that hopes San doesn’t remember to ask him. It’s a family secret, something they’ve kept under wraps for centuries, but that’s the thing, if San asked, Wooyoung wouldn’t be able to hide it, and the last thing he wants to do is scare San away by telling him of what lurks around in the blood in his veins, what he could become if he lost control.

San’s head bobs as he nods gravely, eyes shifting from curiosity to momentary concern before he assumes a neutral expression. Wooyoung grabs his wrist when he goes to knock again. 

“Shoes off, San,” he directs, toeing his own shoes away, watching San pause in his tracks before he follows him wordlessly.

Wooyoung presses his forehead to the door, placing a hand over the infinity sign carved on the darkened wood. 

“Wooyoung, what are you…” He hears San begin before the other promptly shuts up, probably because he figures that Wooyoung knows better about this place than he does.

The door gives away as soon as Wooyoung moves, finishing up the spell. Wooyoung takes a step forward before he stops again. 

San’s eyebrows are scrunched in confusion when he turns. 

“No matter what he asks for, let me do it, okay?”

San balks, mouth opening and closing. “Why? Didn’t Hongjoong hyung say that the fire elixir would be enough?”

Wooyoung smiles. San really didn’t know much, did he?

“He did, but Preachers have a reputation for being particularly tricky to handle. We step inside this place, we are at his mercy, and we don’t leave until he gets what he wants from us.”

“But Hongjoong hyung—”

“Hongjoong hyung’s protected by the covenant. We aren’t,” Wooyoung says.

“Then why did he send us?” San asks. Wooyoung can feel the confusion begin to take a toll on him, the other looking angrier by the second.

“Because…” Wooyoung trails off, not knowing what to tell San. He had asked Hongjoong for the reason, well aware that the older man wouldn’t put their lives on the line just because he had a cold. There had to be a hidden agenda, an intent Wooyoung was too dumb to comprehend, a reason strong enough to have them stand on the door step of a Preacher of all people.

“I don’t know,” Wooyoung admits, twisting his heels and marching forward, trusting San to follow him.

Controlling the quirk of his mouth at the sound of footsteps behind him, Wooyoung wades through the various paraphernalia lying around the huge room, high ceilings and large windows screaming wealth, the scent of danger and trickery potent in the air. Time hasn't touched the place at all, still looking the same as it did the last time Wooyoung was here. 

“Stay close,” he tells San.

“We’re here for the Forbidden Chest,” Wooyoung announces loudly to the room, flinching when a familiar face appears too close to his own. He stumbles back into San’s welcome arms.

The Preacher tuts. “You’re as jumpy as you were when you were young, Master Jung,” he drawls, shoving his completely covered black arm inside a box, a white snake slithering up and twining around his limb.

Wooyoung can’t see San’s face, but he doesn’t have to, not with the way San straightens up and postures, trying to get Wooyoung behind him. He’s always been too protective for his own good.

“What can I say? It’s been a while,” Wooyoung says, his voice steady even if his pulse is hammering away under his sternum. San steps to his side, throwing him an odd look that screams concern, but also something like bewilderment.

“It has indeed. Who have you brought with you today, Master Jung?”

The white marks over the Preacher’s face move like blotted ink before they completely disappear as he turns to look at San.

“Interesting. Strength, blood, loyalty and... _love_ ,” he drawls, petting the snake’s head with his gloved index finger. The way he's looking at San doesn't sit right with Wooyoung. 

Shoving a hand down his pocket, Wooyoung grabs the vial. The more time they spend here, the greater the price would be.

“Here, what you asked for,” Wooyoung says, his palm outstretched with the vial of the elixir. 

“Not what I asked for! What he offered!” The Preacher roars, the floorboards quivering, the snake uncoiling and slithering down his arm only to get incinerated by the other. The ashes fall to the ground, only to be swept away by another heavy draft.

Wooyoung can feel San’s worry, the other’s eyes fully on him as if the danger they’re in will tide over if he just keeps looking at him for as long as he can, like not letting him out of his sight is key to their survival.

“Then, what do you want?” Wooyoung asks out of habit. It doesn’t take him long to realize that he’s stepped into a trap.

“Asking the right questions, Master Jung,” the Preacher praises.

San’s an unmoving figure beside him, but Wooyoung can see that he’s having a hard time keeping himself from interfering.

“Your blood for the chest,” the Preacher continues, tilting his head at San in a thoughtful manner. “And he will be the one to slice through your skin.”

“How much?” Wooyoung asks without missing a beat even as he feels San tense and swallow hard next to him.

“Till I deem it satisfactory.”

Wooyoung nods, turning to San with a dagger he conjures up. He grabs San’s hand, placing the dagger in it. San stares at him wide-eyed.

“Wooyoung, I can’t,” San whispers, terrified.

“You can. I can heal myself later,” Wooyoung says, making sure his voice doesn’t shake.

Looking at San, all Wooyoung sees is denial, so he curls his own fingers over San’s grip on the hilt of the dagger and spreads his other palm.

“I brought you with me because I trust you with my life. Do this for me just this once, San,” Wooyoung says, and closes his eyes, dragging the blade down his skin before San can pull his hand away. The cool blade sinks into Wooyoung’s forgiving skin, the element making contact with the crimson inside him, sending a sharp sting that radiates up his arm.

Biting down on his lip to stop the sharp cry that tears out of his throat, Wooyoung lets pearls of water slip from the corners of his eyes.

Wooyoung sees the horror on San’s face, the flash of hurt as he registers what Wooyoung’s made him do. He knows what he’s done is unforgivable, but he trusts San more than life itself, his magic attempting to wrap around the two of them. Wooyoung can’t hold himself up anymore as blood empties out of his veins to the Preacher’s abode. 

San falls back on his arms with a lost expression which morphs into one of hunger.

Blood trickles quickly down Wooyoung’s skin to the floor, the floorboards drinking it up, leaving no traces. San watches the steady stream with eyes that flash blue and violet, and Wooyoung feels like he should be understanding something, but the matter evades him like a slippery mermaid sinking into the depths of the unilluminated lake bed.

Wooyoung smiles at San’s sharp inhale, the other’s eyes returning to their dark brown, now sparkling from tears. He feels arms hold him up just as he drops to his knees, the blood loss beginning to take a toll on him.

His breaths devolve into ragged ones that make his chest hurt, but San holds him firmly against him. San's entire body feels like a tightly coiled string against Wooyoung, but his grip around him is gentle. Wooyoung wants to slump against him and let himself go, but he doesn’t know what the Preacher has in mind for San. He’d be damned if he let the man hurt him.

The white marks on the Preacher’s face stays unmoving when Wooyoung glances up. Judging by the angle, the man’s perusing San for some reason. Fear plunges its sharp claws into his gut and pulls ferociously. 

“You’re not gonna last like this, Wooyoung,” San murmurs, unaware of the eyes on him or choosing to ignore it, Wooyoung’s not sure, dragging a shaky breath in that has him wincing as if he is the one being drained of blood.

“Yeah,” Wooyoung mumbles, tongue heavy in his mouth as his vision starts to go misty at the edges. Not now, he begs his magic.

“We had a deal,” Wooyoung grits at the man who’s silently watching him bleed out. Blood pours from his veins down to the floorboards too rapidly for Wooyoung’s liking. He’d much rather prefer if he didn’t bleed out at all, especially with how San looks grief-stricken like Wooyoung’s made him walk through fire on bare feet. What he’s done is much worse though, especially if San has to walk out alone tonight. 

It’s nothing that hasn’t happened before. Preachers were notorious for taking the lives of anyone they wanted. His family would rain hell fire on them, but it wouldn’t matter because if there was one thing the Jung family couldn’t do, it was raising the dead. 

“That we did.”

“You can’t let a Jung heir die, Preacher,” Wooyoung challenges.

“I can’t, indeed,” the Preacher murmurs, defeat in his voice like something hasn’t gone his way.

Wooyoung rummages his brain for a possible conclusion, but there's only cold and pain that's a stream in his ears, his magic protesting against the life-draining wound that he refuses to heal.

“I seem to have underestimated your friend, Master Jung,” the Preacher sneers, waving his hand in the air in a motion that is too familiar. Fire sings as it envelops Wooyoung’s hand, and he grits his teeth against the pain as the wound heals.

What did San do that made the Preacher think that he had underestimated him? Wooyoung wonders, head empty as San merely pulls him closer before freezing as if he has realized what he’s doing.

“The mage is getting smarter by the second. I see a bright future for him,” the Preacher continues, face still turned towards San. 

“I’ll let him know that you send your regards,” Wooyoung states, keeping his fingers crossed that he remembers to tell Hongjoong about the compliment. He feels blood replenish quickly in his veins thanks to the other’s ancient magic. Wooyoung wills for his magic to step aside and let the masked man’s magic do its job. No point in tiring himself out when there was an endless source of magic right there in the room.

“Choi San, is it?” The Preacher calls over his shoulder as he turns back to the huge flight of stairs that appear in front of them after he kicks the Forbidden chest over to them. 

“Yes,” San says, voice clipped. He’s angry. Rightfully so, but maybe Wooyoung could have warned him. It must not have been fun to hold him as he bled out, growing weaker in his arms.

Fuck, Wooyoung had fucked up royally, hadn’t he?

“Quite an old soul, aren’t you?” The Preacher’s head is tilted in interest.

San rolls his shoulder, hands gripping the edges of the chest tighter.

“Is there a point you’re trying to make? We don’t have all day,” San asks, belligerently. Wooyoung understands the anger, but he grabs his elbow in a gesture of warning. Eyes skim over their point of contact.

“Interesting. The dragon atop the thirsty mountain,” the Preacher trills pleasantly, like he is in on some joke they aren’t aware of. 

The next thing they know, they’re outside the house, smoke surrounding them, too many questions weighing in on Wooyoung’s conscience.

***

The trek back to the eternity door is silent, tension so thick Wooyoung’s tongue is weighed down by it. San doesn’t say a word, but he hovers close like he always does, giving Wooyoung hope that at least the damage is not too bad. 

The fae at the door rolls her eyes again as she sees the chest, rattling off instructions to keep the item secure as they move through the portal. 

Wooyoung’s hand twitches to hold onto San’s, but he isn’t brave enough to confront San, not with how scary the other could be if he is genuinely pissed, which he is this time.

San hands the chest to him when they step out of the door, rushing out of the alcove, holding on to the wall as he dry heaves due to the nausea. Wooyoung reaches for him, magic itching to touch and heal, but San side steps him.

Okay. Wooyoung deserved that.

The waiting game isn’t Wooyoung’s favorite, especially when someone he cares for so obviously is uncomfortable, but he also respects San’s boundaries, so he patiently waits for San to regain his senses.

“I’m gonna text Mingi,” San tells him, phone already in his hand, fingers tapping away.

Wooyoung nods lightly, afraid to move like he usually does because he doesn’t want San to yell at him. He’s already too wound up from the trials today has brought, 

“He’ll be here in twenty minutes,” San says, reading off of his screen before he shoves it down his pants.

“Ask him to drop you at your place first,” Wooyoung says, voice coming out weak.

“You’re coming home with me,” San says before he amends, “we need to talk.”

There’s no one to go home to, except for that dying lily plant on the window sill, so Wooyoung nods, also figuring that it is better to get it over with than wait for ages for them to talk it out. 

If the ball is in Wooyoung’s court, he’ll never build up the courage to speak to San and explain.

Mingi, bless him, must know that something is wrong because he doesn’t tease, merely checking on Wooyoung, worry hidden in the  _ you okay, Wooyoung? _ he throws at him. When San tells him to just take them to his place, Mingi doesn’t question it, quirking an eyebrow at Wooyoung in the mirror like he is trying to double-check with him with a  _ you okay with that? _

Wooyoung really appreciates the concern, but he also isn’t afraid to admit that this conversation with San is necessary, so he nods.

Mingi takes the chest with him when he leaves, pulling San aside after he asks Wooyoung to stay in the car. Wooyoung is tempted to listen in, but he’s never been one to eavesdrop, so he puts the barrier spell on the car, blissful silence drowning out the furious hushed voices of his friends. 

It doesn’t take too long for them to resolve whatever it is that they want to. San is the one who knocks on the window to signal that he can come out. 

Mingi gives him a clipped smile as he waves at them, an arm thrown outside the window before he rolls it up, driving away.

***   
  


San lives a little farther away from their office than Wooyoung does, in a house which is too empty for someone as bright as San even if he had some isolationist tendencies. Wooyoung tails him, flicking the light on before San can, which gets him an indecipherable look from him.

Wooyoung hasn’t been here much, but whenever Hongjoong assigned something that required research, Wooyoung would leave with San, taking a nap on the uber comfy bed in his guest room before waking up around noon and sitting down together to take a crack at whatever puzzle Hongjoong wanted them to resolve.

This visit though, is different. 

“Do you want something to drink?” San asks him, opening the fridge, shoulders tight. Wooyoung feels a tendril of joy spark up when he sees that the fridge is decently stocked. Maybe San had finally taken his advice and decided to eat healthy.

Wooyoung shakes his head before he mumbles a  _ no _ when he realizes San isn’t looking at him, in fact, he's not even trying to. He pulls at the sleeves of his sweater, nervous.

San takes the carton of orange juice and fills a glass to the brim, moving it wordlessly to the other end of the island towards Wooyoung. 

Wooyoung furrows his brows.

“I said I don’t want—”

“You were bleeding to death,” San says, voice tense as he cuts him off and glances at his watch, “about two hours ago.”

“But he healed me. I didn’t lose any blo—”

“Wooyoung, for the love of God, just please,” San pleads, looking pained.

The guilt is the only reason why Wooyoung drinks the juice, the scent of orange thick in the air, his tongue piercing cooling from the cold liquid and making him scrunch one eye shut at the near-brainfreeze moment.

“What you pulled was shitty,” San says, not sparing a minute, his hand unbuttoning the second button of his shirt, fingers straining like every muscle in his body is fighting to unleash everything he feels. Wooyoung’s eyes flit to the sliver of pale skin on display before he shakes himself to focus on what the other is saying.

“San, I told you to leave it up to me,” Wooyoung points out.

San runs a hand through his hair harshly.

“Yeah, but you didn’t tell me that you were gonna force me to cut you open and watch you bleed!”

“I had no clue what he would ask for, and the easiest way to get out of that place was to go through whatever he asked for at the earliest,” Wooyoung explains, hating the way San’s nails are sinking into the fabric of his own shirt. 

Wooyoung has never seen the other look so small. Did he really worry San so much?

“Wooyoung, you don’t… fuck!” San swears, seemingly waging a battle of his own.

“I don’t what?” Wooyoung asks.

“You’re so blind. So blind it hurts,” San says after a long moment has passed, his usually steady voice wavering.

Wooyoung could say the same thing, couldn’t he? But he keeps his mouth shut, knowing that if he speaks up, he’ll leave this place disappointed. Losing San over some stupid feelings is something he refuses to do. 

Pining over him seems like a much better choice to live with than having to ignore San and be ignored.

Wooyoung isn’t sure he’ll survive if it ever comes down to that. 

It should be scary, how attached he has become over the span of a couple of months, but it was inevitable. There was no point in questioning the logic behind it, and it's not like he had a chance anyway. 

“What don’t I see?” Wooyoung tries.

“Everything, Wooyoung. You’re as blind as they come,” San breathes in defeat. 

What does he mean by that?

“You can’t just make me hold a knife and just make me slice you open like that, Young-ah. I can’t… What if I...?” San tips his head forward, looking down at his feet.

Was San angry at him for not allowing him the autonomy to make a decision? That was a valid reason to be pissed at him, but the distress is what throws Wooyoung off guard. He knows that they’re friends, that San didn’t have anyone like him by his side when he joined Oasis, having only met Mingi prior to joining. The both of them sync on some astral plane, and he’s certain that he’s not alone when he says that he feels a bond with him in a way that he hasn’t felt with anyone else, not even Yeosang. 

Wooyoung is not stupid to let something like this go up in flames over a small scuffle.

It feels like he’s been given a question paper for an entirely different subject when San looks at him with pleading eyes like this, eyes that spell out so many things that even Wooyoung’s magic feels overwhelmed, making him feel weak in the knees.

“Are you angry at me for making you hurt me?” Wooyoung settles on asking, trudging over to San with careful steps, San’s gaze following him.

San rubs a hand over his face. “It’s not just that, and I’m not really angry either. It’s me. I can’t...” 

Wooyoung’s missing something, but he doesn’t want to push San into revealing what it is, so he places a hand over San’s shoulder, a touch that has San tensing before he relaxes.

“Can I give you a hug?” 

Wooyoung has barely blinked when he feels San pull him into a ferocious hug, his arms tightly twined around him, his chest quivering under him like he’s taking staccato breaths in order to stop himself from taking too deep an inhale.

“Breathe, San,” Wooyoung says, hooking his chin over the other’s shoulder, standing on tip toes to even out their height. 

“I can’t do that around you. Not until you see what’s happening.”

“Then tell me what’s up.”

“I can’t... I can’t.”

Sighing in defeat, Wooyoung lets his magic wrap around the both of them, feeling San relax even further in his arms.

“I did that because I trust you with my life. There’s no one else I’ll hand a dagger to and hope to make me bleed.”

Perhaps it’s too overwhelming a confession because San’s body shudders against him, but Wooyoung only holds him tighter, letting his warmth seep out and into the other’s skin.

***

“I don’t know what you’re trying to do, hyung, but I’m not going to go with San to the Preacher’s place again.”

Hongjoong looks up from the crystal circle in front of him, taking his glasses off with a sigh as he regards Wooyoung with caution.

“What did he do?” Hongjoong asks, forehead creased.

“ _ San  _ didn’t do anything,” Wooyoung grits. 

How dare Hongjoong doubt San?

“I know he won’t. I’m asking about the Preacher, Wooyoung.” Hongjoong’s voice is gentle, nothing like how demanding he usually sounds.

Wooyoung feels his shoulders slump, plopping down on the chair opposite Hongjoong’s desk.

“He asked for my blood, specifically for San to make me bleed. He wouldn’t, so I had to make him do it.”

An odd aftertaste forms in Wooyoung’s mouth as he says it. He really hadn’t given San a choice, had he?

There’s a flash of disbelief on Hongjoong’s face as he looks at Wooyoung.

“And he was fine with it?” 

“Of course not! He had a fit about it when we got home. Said he didn’t wanna hurt me like that ever again.”

“He didn’t hurt you… further?”

Wooyoung frowns. 

_ What the fuck is that supposed to mean? _

“What do you mean? It’s San, hyung,” Wooyoung indignantly returns, offended on San's behalf and horrified at the prospect of Hongjoong even considering the fact that San could hurt him beyond repair.

Hongjoong watches him for a moment that drags on, and he only breaks the silence when it gets painful.

“Why are you both so stupid?” Hongjoong asks, a sigh that is long suffering escaping him as he gets back to realigning the crystals in front of him, ignoring Wooyoung’s presence.

Maybe he should get San in on a plan and graffiti “haters” all over everyone’s car because clearly jealousy of their far more superior brains is what seems to be the root of the problem.

Hongjoong calls him just as Wooyoung stops grumbling to himself and turns to leave.

“What?” He barks.

“Never mind,” Hongjoong says, a glint in his eye that sparks Wooyoung’s self-preservation instincts.

Maybe being snappy with Hongjoong isn’t the smartest decision, but hey what’s done is done. He’ll regret it later.

**Author's Note:**

> I honestly want to squish their faces together and make them kiss, but plot has to happen haha!! I hope you guys liked what you saw! Please let me know what you thought in the comments and leave kudos if you liked it! Thank you so much for reading!! I hope you're all staying safe and healthy! Sending you love and hugs!! Enjoy the holidays~~
> 
> Come yell at me on my [CC](https://curiouscat.me/wooyoungisthesun) or my [ Twitter ](https://twitter.com/rayteezer)!!!


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